


The Gift

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Series: Supernatural [3]
Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-16
Updated: 2009-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:16:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from Pellew's 65th birthday party, Charlotte realizes she has yet to celebrate Horatio's and gives him the best gift of all, the one that keeps on giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

Horatio shook off his sodden greatcoat, snowflakes that had gathered in its folds falling to the foyer's thick rug. A stern looking woman in her late forties known only to the Hornblower family as Mrs. Brady efficiently brushed a lock of mousy blonde hair from her cheek and took the heavy oilskin from her master, then proceeded to help Charlotte of with her evening pelisse and cloak. His wife smiled sheepishly at him, gleaming white against her creamed coffee skin, shivering slightly as she brushed the melting white crystals from her dark hair.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to it," she told him softly, "the snow I mean."

"I know, darling," he took her chin in his hand and gave it a gentle, fond tug. He knew how difficult it was for her to adjust to life outside of The Chase; she was a sport to accompany him every winter to London as the admiralty required. 'Rather the cold of bloody England than the cold of a bed without you,' she had told him; thinking on it made a part of his heart beat faster, warmer.

"Shall I ready your bedchambers, Commodore Hornblower?" Mrs. Brady asked, once again sweeping an errant lock of her hair behind her ear as she eyed them shrewdly, her hawk-like features seeming all the more so in the dim light.

"Just my rooms, Mrs. Brady," he informed her without even glancing at Charlotte as he removed his gloves. "The children are a-bed?"

He smiled to himself; Abigail, the eldest at nine, would have been the most difficult to convince it was, in fact, bedtime. She was stubborn; Charlotte always said his sweet little Abbie took too much after him, which was nonsense of course. If she got her obstinate personality from anyone, it was from Charlotte, he always assured himself sternly. Horatio Jr., Archibald, and Felicity, realizing that their sister was defeated at last, would have followed close after. Abbie always seemed to know just when to give in, when Horatio's temper was on the breaking point. She had dreams too, odd dreams like her mother; sometimes she would awake, her head filled with stories and lives far beyond her reach and imagination. She was always complimented on her wild creativity but sometimes Horatio couldn't be sure...

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Brady gave the couple a knowing look. She was their only servant, a fact that Horatio tried his best to conceal, for they could afford no other than the able housemaid. She looked after their small household as capably as ten retainers but there was always the underlying sense that their lack of wealth was modest. Brave Charlotte, he thought as he ascended the stair to the humble townhouse's second floor, to his bedchamber. Not only did his wife suffer the slings and arrows of society women because of her former position as a servant and, more aggressively, her color. She was blamed for everything, among the gossips, from any ailment Horatio suffered to their lack of money.

He knew the vultures would descend the moment they had entered the Pellew's household; not that his friend and former mentor would ever insinuate anything untoward about Charlotte for she was kin from afar and from illegitimacy. Lady Pellew always had a kind word and open heart for the both of them. That night, Sir Edward's birthday, had been no different; if their London retreat was always filled with warmth and happiness, it seemed to be threefold that night on the sixty-fifth anniversary of Pellew's birth.

"We never celebrated your birthday, Horatio," Charlotte remembered as she entered his chamber clothed only in a white linen wrap that her husband had always found so alluring. Her hair was loose, her raven tresses glossy from her brush, flowing down to her waist wispily. "Remember, Archie got sick and then you were called away; we never had the chance." She walked up behind him, pressing her voluptuous body against his leanly muscular back as she nuzzled her nose into his spicy scented skin, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist. He was wearing only his breeches, his finery discarded upon the chair near the wardrobe, and the demonstration of her effect she had on him always in embarrassing evidence as his trousers began to tent at the crotch.

"Just as well," he muttered, eyeing his greying temples in the shaving mirror before him.

"Nonsense," answered Charlotte playfully, running her fingers through the feather softness of his curls, tickling his cheek with a lock of his own silver frosted lock. "I think it makes you look very distinguished," she studied his reflection, those beautiful, fathomless pools of warm chocolate, the prominent nose. "I didn't even have a chance to give you a gift!" she sighed hopelessly.

"You are my gift, love," he grinned, raising her hand to his luscious mouth, that succulent pink bow, and kissing the palm.

She giggled, wriggling against him, her weighty breasts bouncing gleefully against the small of his back up to his shoulder blades as she stood on tip toes and whispered in his ear, warm breath caressing his neck, making him quiver for her.

"Then come to bed and unwrap me; I'm your special birthday present."

He turned suddenly, snatching her up and turning her about as she squealed in delight, her feet dangling well above the Persian as he hoisted her into his arms and danced with her. He dropped her onto the bed, its look of simple fabrics and a thin mattress giving the impression of an uncomfortable space rather than the soft and sweet destination it was. She moaned so endearingly as he smothered her body with his own, kissing her hard, hungrily.

"You're still cold," he observed, feeling the dampness in her hair with a frown, which turned to a mischievous smile. "I can take care of that."

Clever, long fingers found the tie to her gown just below her breast, tugging at it until it fell loose and his large warm hands slid underneath the thin fabric, cupping the ample, pliant mounds of her bosom. Kissing her passionately he squeezed the pleasing hillocks gently while massaging the dusky aureoles of her stiff nipples with the seat of his thumbs, brushing the taut nubs with his fingertips. She gasped, smiling against his lips as she allowed his tongue to penetrate her mouth, roughly tasting her own, brining it to a writhing dance with his velvet organ, mating with hers.

A new dampness flooded from her; heated, slippery between her curved thighs. She arched her back as if to offer herself to him fully as he bent bowed his head and sucked her nipple into the wet warmth of his mouth, nursing her teat noisily as his hand savored her curves, finally burrowing into the dark, wiry nest of black hair just below her belly. He plunged one lengthy digit into her satiny nook, massaging slowly, teasingly. She began to move against his hand, her slick nectar filling his palm as she worked her muscles, around his tightly in a tantalizing invitation.

Her breasts shimmered with his saliva in the flickering candlelight as he laved the rigid peaks with his tongue, rasping like a cat's while being as smooth as silk at the same time. She watched as his head slowly moved across her body, his mouth tasting every inch of her skin, pushing into her navel, nuzzling her round tummy with his nose. He urged her thighs apart and she complied more than willingly, watching with glittering eyes, dark and warm like coffee, as his chestnut curls settled between them. She cried out as she felt that deliciously thick tongue part her swollen lips and press inside, exploring where his finger had been moments ago. He feasted on her as a man too long deprived though he was anything but! Supping her salty, hot essence as she melted like snow in his mouth; she had a fresh scent to her that he adored, brackish and clean like the sea spray upon his tongue. He suckled her clitoris, knowing that this would bring her dangerously close to the edge and leaving her there even as she begged for him to continue. Instead he pulled away, his hands moving to the fastenings of his breeches.

Licking her from his lips and chin with relish, he undid the buttons at his waist, letting the fabric fall to the floor, pooling at his feet. He stretched leisurely, his sinew rippling beneath his smooth skin, his lank frame so beautiful by firelight. He was tall and lean though his musculature spoke of untold power and strength. His cock, fully erect, bobbed before her, rising from the dark fur of his groin. She could smell his spicy male fragrance from where she lay, telling her how perfectly ready he was for her. He gave the shaft a firm stroke and a tug making the throbbing organ stretch even further as he grinned at her.

She sat up, pulling him towards her, licking her lips as she moved her small hands around to his brawny buttocks, pinching the cheeks as she took him into her mouth and sucked upon the head as if it were a lolly, a delectable sweet. He groaned deeply, almost brutally, throwing his head back in bliss as his fingers tangled in the silk of her hair. She ran her tongue along the ridge, fondling the smooth skin of the bulbous helmet, large and purple like a plum. He couldn't hold off any longer; he pushed her back down onto the duvet and, holding her knees in his forceful grip, positioned her to receive him.

His lips parted like some sort of Renaissance cherub, eyes dark with want, he climbed atop her and thrust his raging cock into her, basking in every inch of her slippery, pulsating sheath as he sank into her slowly. She locked her ankles around his at the small of his back and moaned; her eyes fluttering closed in the rapture of feeling him inside of her, of feeling so complete and filled. He thought he would cum from the sensation of her gripping him so tightly alone; he was not even consciously aware of the fact that his hips had begun to buck of their own accord, riding her with long, wet strokes.

Her pussy sucked at his prick, always so snug a fit for his enormous organ, as if the greedy crevasse wanted only to consume the entire length again and again with no reprieve, no mercy. She milked the fat shaft with her inner muscles just as she had his finger, her cunny delighting in this tastier treat. He was so portly, so lengthy and he was so deep in her, touches places she never would have imagined she even possessed; secret, lustful places of her femininity.

Nearly screaming, she reached her climax, riding the waves of her crest as if they were soft, warm breakers lapping gently against the Caribbean shoreline. She panted, holding to him fastly, digging her nails into his strong shoulders as she thrashed her head against the eiderdown, her cheeks burning with passion and fulfillment. He followed, pumping his seed deep within her womb; there was so much, so many surges for her pussy to drink in greedily.

He fell against her, drawing her close, careful not to crush her beneath the weight of his body as he tenderly cradled her to him, kissing her hair. He pulled her beneath the bedclothes, continuing to hold her affectionately as he whispered sweet endearments to her. He never knew that love would be like this; he locked himself away for so much of his life until he had first made love to Charlotte. The walls of his shyness that he himself had built had been broken then, the floodgates opened almost as if the spilling of his seed had represented the spilling of his soul. And he had given her ample amounts of both since.

"I love you," he whispered and felt one salty tear from her eyes caress his chest where her cheek lay. He didn't say it often; it was not an endearment to be taken lightly but he knew that he meant it; for her, for everything she had given him.

"I love you too, my darling, darling husband," she said the words proudly, so ardently.

"This was the best birthday present I've ever received," he teased with a slight chuckle. "Belated or not." The Birthday gift that kept giving, he thought, and with that, drifted off into sleep.

The End


End file.
